


Say Your Last Words In Silence

by theonewithtwo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Gen, M/M, Unresolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:56:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonewithtwo/pseuds/theonewithtwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd think that here, at the end of all things, there would be so much more to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Your Last Words In Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

 

 

 

 

**1.**

 

At some point, the noise of the city dies down to an echoing silence.

 

John wants to move to the window and look out at the lights, because maybe if he keeps a vigilant watch, the world won’t dare crumble and they’ll see another dawn. But he stays frozen in his armchair, fingers wrapped around an icy mug of tea.

 

He’s good at ignoring useless wishes now. They all are.

 

It’s telling, he thinks, that he chooses to spend his last night on earth within the walls of 221b with only Sherlock and the roaring fireplace for company. Part of John finds it almost disappointingly predictable. But for the most part, he’s exactly where he wants to be.

 

Mrs. Hudson had left early on to search for a long estranged aunt in the countryside. She had phoned religiously the first few weeks, but that had tapered off until one night where she’d simply said, “I’ll miss you dears,” and told him where she hid the spare keys. John had dumbly nodded, but she seemed to understand, and they’d disconnected.

 

John had assumed that Sherlock, despite all his declarations against any notion of familial duty, would follow their landlady’s lead and retreat to his parent’s cottage. So John had quietly packed a bag and, for a few agonizing days, tried to think of where he’d be welcome. There was no home on Baker Street alone.

 

He’d just about worked up the courage to go to Harry’s when he came back from his last rotation at surgery to find his bag gone, things unpacked, and a half-cooled cup of tea sitting on the coffee table like an apology.

 

John should have known that Sherlock would never leave London.

 

The man himself is curled on the sofa, dressing gown gripped tight around his drawn up knees. Sherlock had cycled through every piece of clothing in his wardrobe—twice—until finally slouching into the sitting room to sulk.

 

“So you’ve decided on the lounge-wear, then.”

 

Sherlock stares unblinking at the fire. “I can’t imagine death is a black-tie event.” He turns his gaze to John. “Any gesture towards dignity seems unfounded, at any rate.”

 

John takes an unsteady sip of the cold tea. Evening creeps upon them in silence.

 

 

 

**2.**

 

John had thought that Sherlock would chase down case after case until the very last minute he had in this life. But the promise of human extinction has only equipped the world with a hunger for the most basic and brutal violence. There are no clever plans of murder, deception, or international conspiracy—just time-old rage and despair as the world lays waste upon itself.

 

So he watches as the stunning deductions become more and more infrequent until Sherlock retreats into cold, unbroken silence.

 

After all, there is no precedent for what is coming.

 

  

 

**3.**

 

They don’t really understand how it will happen. John has a weak grasp of any astronomical science at best, and Sherlock has helpfully deleted any knowledge of the field long ago.

 

Boiled down to the basics: something massive will strike Earth, and that will be that. Sherlock’s words, of course. John feels that it’s important to also note that the impact will vaporize approximately ninety-six percent of all life forms.

 

“You might as well round it to one-hundred percent,” Sherlock says, the comforting arse.

 

“Four-percent is still a lot.”

 

The other man gives a half-hearted sneer. “Microbial organisms, John. Deep-sea creatures that will experience minimized effects because of the basic virtue of their natural habitat. Four-percent is _nothing_.”

 

Translation: there is nowhere to hide.

 

-

 

John remembers where he was when it all goes to hell. For weeks there had been whispers, constantly mutating rumors, and terrified rioting as people demanded to know just exactly what the world was facing. Not that it needed a name; the details hardly mattered when everyone already knew how it would end. It was like a collective gut instinct, as though a latent empathy within the human species had finally roused at the scent of its approaching extinction.

 

John remembers that it had been one of their last few cases:

 

He is taking tea with Molly in her office at St. Bart’s, having left an irate Sherlock in the lab to run his tests.

 

Molly has lost weight, enough so that she looks pale and tired—fashionable, nowadays. But her laugh is still quick and nervous, a constant that John takes comfort in. They sit huddled around her computer as it streams the news. It’s the only thing that’s on lately; that and reruns.

 

John gulps his tea. It’s some sort of off-brand but he barely tastes it. Molly doesn’t so much as glance at her own cup.

 

“Um,” he grimaces. “What are—. Right. Any plans?”

 

And really, he means Plans, with a capital-P. This is what passes for conversation these days: a morbid curiosity of finding out just where everyone is deciding to take their last bow.

 

It’s more than a touch distasteful, regardless of context, and he regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.

 

But Molly, bless her weird soul, only flashes him a small smile.

 

“Dunno,” she says. ‘Just, wherever I end up, I guess.”

 

John doesn’t extend her an invitation partly because he doesn’t want to insult her, and partly because he’s just that selfish. He knows there’s no one waiting for her at home, save a cat or two, dead parents and distant relatives, and clues pointing towards a string of disinterested and manipulative ex-boyfriends. Privately, John thinks that Molly thrives as a singular unit, and so he refuses to discredit her with misguided pity.

 

She’s watching him now, with her patent unblinking, considering stare that always makes him wonder if she isn’t even just the tiniest bit telepathic. There’s a question on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitates, and in that silence the computer emits a low whine.

 

They both look to the screen in time to see the BBC logo disappear, revealing a lone spokeswoman standing before a stark backdrop.

 

The hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up.

 

So this is it. John grips the cup in his hand so tightly that he’s amazed it doesn’t crack.

 

‘ _At approximately 0800 this morning, the World Emergency Council convened to address information brought to its attention by the United Nations Office for Outer—’_

 

His pulse jackrabbits, a sensation he associates with midnight Afghanistan firefights and watching Sherlock leap over the too-wide gaps between buildings. It triggers a manic awareness, burning through his nerves until the edges of the world are too sharp.

 

“—John?”

 

He’s on his feet—when did he stand?—and Molly is standing too, alarmed.

 

“Sherl—,” John chokes out before he’s out the door.

 

Later, John can’t recall much outside of the sound of his own pounding footfalls and the spokeswoman’s strained voice.

 

‘ _Estimated time of impact: ten weeks.’_

 

Her face is a strange blur in his memory, but John can say with certainty that her gauzy pink blouse was missing its middle button on its left sleeve cuff.

 

‘ _The likelihood of death is…guaranteed.’_

 

Sherlock is still hunched over the microscope when John bursts into the lab. “Not now,” the man snaps, adjusting the slide.

 

_‘Martial law has been declared. All citizens are advised to return to their homes until further notice. Safety procedures recommended are…’_

 

“Sherlock,” he says, and something in John's voice gives the man pause. Sherlock slowly straightens out of his slouch and turns a blank face towards John.

 

“It’s—,” John clears his throat. “It’s been confirmed.”

 

Neither man moves.

 

“How long?”

 

“Ten weeks.”

 

Sherlock nods, his dark curls bouncing with the movement. “I see.” And turns back to the microscope.

 

John watches as Sherlock adjusts dials with a steady hand, already being drawn back into his own private world of chemicals and data. What John wouldn’t give to join him.

 

He hears the clicks of Molly’s heels as she approaches. Everything suddenly feels so slow and surreal, like he’s struggling against a current of molasses. But he’s calm, so calm that he wonders if he hasn’t just achieved a new state of nirvana from the stress alone. Later, he’ll think that he’s more surprised that they hadn’t heard the news from Mycroft first.

 

John feels Molly’s presence more than he sees it. She pauses briefly inside the lab door before stepping close and sliding her hand into his. He squeezes reflexively.

 

It’s a long while before any of them move.

 

 

 

**4.**

 

Mycroft did visit, early on. Once.

 

It is a stiff, uncomfortable affair. The man commandeers John’s armchair and engages Sherlock in a silent glaring match, leaving John to orbit the brothers in a stumbling wander between the sitting room and kitchen.

 

“My dear brother,” Mycroft drawls. “How is the work?”

 

If possible, Sherlock’s glare darkens. “Endlessly fascinating. Apparently, there’s already a nationwide shortage of chocolate digestives and marshmallows. I’m impressed, Mycroft; I don’t believe I’ve seen you move this quickly since the Angolan rebellion.”

 

Mycroft gives a tight smile.

 

John drops the tea tray between them with a clatter, but neither man acknowledges him. _Not your bloody fucking housekeeper_ , he thinks darkly, and retreats to the sofa.

 

It takes every bit of his restraint to keep from strangling either of the brothers in front of him, but it’s a near thing.

 

_Idiots!_ _It’s the end of bloody world and they still can’t drop this fucking charade._ He fumes from his seat on the sofa, watching them trade barbs and prod pressure points like over-grown children. _How hard is it to just properly_ talk _for once!_

 

Like an overeager dog, John’s traitorous mind instantly conjures up Harry. Not the gap-toothed smiling sister of his childhood, or the nearly sober woman who had been partner in the Clara-and-Harry title. Instead, it pulls up the angry, divorced Harry of Harry-and-the-Wine-Bottle, who lives alone in a too-large flat and who slurs goodbye to her only brother over the phone while muffling hiccups.

 

John looks down at his hands, and then at his feet.

 

He tells himself that his limping retreat from the room is to give the brothers some semblance of privacy.

 

 

 

**5.**

 

Briefly, very briefly, John turns his gaze upwards. Like so many others, he looks to faith in the midst of a crisis. But John is not looking for answers.

 

_Please, God, let me live._

 

He thinks that if any God had heard him when he had laid bleeding into the desert sands, then that God might be listening now. Except this time, when John prays, he thinks not just of himself: John thinks of dark, wild curls; slim fingers that fly over the strings of a Stradivarius; the upturned collar of a thick coat. He thinks briefly, very briefly, of a love that has not yet found its time or place in the world.

 

_Time_ , he thinks. _Just give me more time._

 

He nearly breaks from the desperation.

 

 

 

**6.**

 

They’ve migrated to the floor, heads beneath the open windows so that they can stare up at the evening sky. The fire has died down to a warm glow, and John shifts to pull a quilt over the two of them.

 

Other than a few stilted conversations, they have barely said a word all day.

 

John watches the twinkling lights above and wonders if some are planes, carrying people across the miles so that they may spend their last night among loved ones. He’s one of the lucky ones, he thinks not for the first time. He will pass on in the comfort of his own home and with the companionship of the man beside him.

 

Still. He’s not ready. Would he ever be? No, not when there is so much left unsaid and unfinished. Yet, for the life of him, John can’t find the words.

 

If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the world slipping from his grasp, minute by minute.

 

“You know,” John says. “I thought it’d be louder than this.” He gestures vaguely. “Armageddon. The apocalypse. Who’d have thought that the world would go out so…peacefully.” Not that he’d expected rabid celebrations or destruction, but…well, wouldn’t there have been _something_?

 

He half-expects to hear Sherlock scoff and say something scathing along the lines of “Yes, because the annihilation of the human race is such a _festive_ occasion,” but is instead met with a now-familiar silence. John tracks a blinking light across the sky until it disappears behind clouds. It is a strange thing, a quiet Sherlock, and John flounders to fill the space.

 

He has half a mind to make more tea, but when John turns to Sherlock, he finds the man staring back. “Hey,” John says quietly, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

 

Sherlock watches him with a fierce intensity, diminished only by the dark smudges beneath both eyes. “John,” he concedes. “I was wrong.”

 

John shifts until he’s on his side facing Sherlock, with one arm bent under his head. Sherlock holds his gaze. They curl towards each other like quotations.

 

“Sentiment,” Sherlock murmurs.

 

“Dull,” John parrots, but not unkindly.

 

“And yet, here we are.” The space between them feels like a chasm, but neither moves to close it. “Why did you stay?”

 

John studies Sherlock’s face, memorizes every line and wrinkle, the ridiculous curve of his cupid’s bow and the sharp turn of his cheekbones. “Where else would I be?”

 

Sherlock makes an odd sound, as though simultaneously battling awe and suspicious confusion. John’s smile is a crooked thing.

 

“I’ve spent the last few years practically glued to your side. You’re not getting rid of me so easily,” John says.

 

There is no objection from Sherlock, so John settles for watching the cascade of emotions flickers across the other man’s face. Had he always been so expressive?

 

“This is pretty much how I imagined it’d happen. The end of us, that is,” John muses.

 

He looks to the fraying edges of the sofa beside them, at the collection of papers and journals that Sherlock had stuffed under it like a packrat. From John’s angle, he can even see a few moldy cups of tea tucked into the mess. “Together,” John clarifies. “Although, I admit, I thought we’d die either getting shot at or being blown to bits. Or if we’d somehow managed to survive all that, then we’d get to be old totters somewhere out in Sussex with…bees. And a dog.”

 

John finally meets Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“So, well, it’s not actually _that_ particularly accurate. But—,” John shrugs the shoulder that isn’t being mashed into the carpet. “Together. We’d be together. Like this.” Previous near-death situations tell John that he is, indeed, given to making confessions, but _Christ_ , couldn’t he die with just a little dignity? At the very least, he’s managed to hold Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice hoarse. His name, one word, is heavy with exhaustion and a raw _faith_ that he, John Watson—soldier, doctor, _friend_ —is what will keep the world turning.

 

Not trusting his voice, John nods, because between the layers in Sherlock’s voice, John hears it: _yes_.

 

Something settles in John, even as he clutches at his splintering soul. Because of course John understands. What else was he in this life if not the medium between Sherlock and the world? He might not know even a fraction of what goes on in Sherlock’s head, but he understands him. John swallows past a dry throat, a sensation not unlike sandpaper.

 

They’re out of time.

 

He sighs. It’s a rough, wet sound, prelude to his heart unraveling, but John shoves it all down. He won’t. Not here, at the end of all things.

 

Already there is a faint glow in the sky, even though the sun has set only a few hours before. It casts a pale orange light across them both, catching on the errant strands of Sherlock’s messy mop of hair. John frowns as he reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “Isn’t it rather early for dawn?” John shifts, contemplating a quick peek out the window.

 

Beside him, Sherlock tenses. “Don’t look,” Sherlock commands.

 

He reaches out a hand to John, who instinctively closes his eyes. A hesitation, and then Sherlock is stroking the callused pad of a thumb over John’s cheek. John breathes steadily, listening to the soft intakes of breath from the other man. The thumb traces its way down the curve of John’s jaw, slowly, lovingly, and stutters over the swell of John’s lower lip.

 

“‘Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet’,” Sherlock breathes. John’s lips twitch upwards under Sherlock’s thumb, but his eyes remain closed.

 

“What’s this,” John rasps, marveling at the sensation. “Has Death finally turned the great Sherlock Holmes into a poet?”

 

Faint tendrils of heat unfurl around them, warm enough that it makes John wonder if he isn’t experiencing a full-body blush instead.

 

There is a brush of softness against John’s lips and then another breath is mingling with his.

 

“No, John.” Sherlock’s lips shape the words almost soundlessly against his own. “ _Sentiment_.”

 

 

 

 .

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to answer some questions but only ended up with more.
> 
>  
> 
> The poem that Sherlock quotes:
> 
> Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.  
> Let it not be a death but completeness.  
> Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.  
> Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.  
> Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.  
> Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.  
> I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.  
> ~ Rabindranath Tagore


End file.
